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Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains
With fix'd considerate face, And puzzling set his puppy
brains To comprehend the case.
But with a cherup clear and strong
Dispersing all his dream,
The windings of the stream.
My ramble ended, 1 return'd;
Beau, trotting far before,
And plunging, left the shore.
I saw him with that lily cropp'd
Impatient swim to meet My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd The treasure at my
Charm'd with the sight, the world, I cried,
Shall hear of this thy deed : My dog shall mortify the pride
Of man's superior breed :
But chief myself I will enjoin,
Awake at duty's call,
To Him who gives me all.
THE WINTER NOSEGAY.
What Nature, alas ! has denied
To the delicate growth of our isle, Art has in a measure supplied,
And winter is deck'd with a smile. See, Mary, what beauties I bring
From the shelter of that sunny shed, Where the flowers have the charms of the spring,
Though abroad they are frozen and dead.
'Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets,
Where Flora is still in her prime, A fortress to which she retreats
From the cruel assaults of the clime. While earth wears a mantle of snow,
These pinks are as fresh and as gay As the fairest and sweetest that blow
On the beautiful bosom of May.
See how they have safely survived
The frowns of a sky so severe ; Such Mary's true love, that has lived
Through many a turbulent year. The charms of the late-blowing rose
Seem graced with a livelier hue, And the winter of sorrow best shows
The truth of a friend such as you.
THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE
An Oyster, cast upon the shore,
Ah, hapless wretch! condemn’d to dwell
envy that unfeeling shrub,
When, cry the botanists, and stare,
You shapeless nothing in a dish, You that are but almost a fish,
I scorn your coarse insinuation,
A poet, in his evening walk,
You, in your grotto-work enclosed,
And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
If all the plants, that can be found
their owner half divine. His censure reach'd them as he dealt it, And each by shrinking show'd he felt it.
WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION.
Oh, happy shades—to me unblest !
Friendly to peace, but not to me! How ill the scene that offers rest,
And heart that cannot rest, agree !
This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
Those alders, quivering to the breeze, Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,
And please, if any thing could please.
But fix'd unalterable Care
Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness every where, And slights the season and the scene.